


A Good Man Is Hard to Find

by krabapple



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krabapple/pseuds/krabapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Because Sherlock is a great man, and I think one day -- if we’re very, very lucky -- he might even be a good one.</i> -- DI Lestrade</p><p>A fusion with Flannery O'Connor's short story "A Good Man Is Hard to Find."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Man Is Hard to Find

**Author's Note:**

> I started out intending to steal only Flannery O’Connor’s title, and I ended up stealing her whole story. This is a strange fusion of O’Connor’s story _A Good Man Is Hard to Find_ and BBC’s _Sherlock_. The case elements are from the short story; the characters are _Sherlock_. Some of the dialogue is from O'Connor's story. I have updated the short story’s elements when appropriate.
> 
> I don’t think it’s strictly necessary to read the original short story, but it would help. A decent online version is here if you need one: http://pegasus.cc.ucf.edu/~surette/goodman.html. There are a few typos, but the story is intact. Please note the story is set in the 1950s, and was first published in the early 1960s; the setting informs the character’s politics (and are not endorsed by O’Connor, either).
> 
> Spoilers for _The Great Game._ Thanks to _Futurama_ for one of the lines. Additional author’s notes are at the end of the story.

John is the one who answers the phone, of course he is, because listening to Sherlock’s phone ring every two minutes for an hour is close to the upper limits of even his capacity.

“John,” Mycroft says.

“Mycroft.”

“Put me on speakerphone,” Mycroft says. John does what he is told and presses the button.

“No,” Sherlock says immediately. He’s on his back on the couch, fully dressed, including a blazer and a pair of shoes, as if mayhem might occur at any moment. John is beginning to think that is Sherlock’s version of wishful thinking.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says.

“ _No_. Just because you got yourself involved in some silly state’s water dispute does not mean that I am therefore responsible to pay your metaphorical debts. You _do_ know that the United States ceased to be a colony some two hundred plus years ago?”

“So they like to think. As long as I continue to aid Alabama, I continue to owe Georgia.”

“Which is no concern of mine,” Sherlock insists.

“It’s a serial killer.”

John raises his eyebrows.

“It’s a spree killer,” Sherlock corrects. He shuts his mouth into a thin line; even John knows a slip when he hears one.

“More likely three of them.” Mycroft plays his hand.

“As I well _know_ ,” Sherlock adds.

“I’ve taken the liberty of packing each of you a bag,” Mycroft continues. “Unless John would prefer not to go.”

“ _I’m_ not going,” Sherlock says. “John may do as John likes.”

“John,” Mycroft says.

“Of course,” John replies.

“You’ll see to my brother.”

“Of course,” John says again.

“ _Your brother_ does not need seeing to,” Sherlock says, swinging his legs around so he is sitting up, feet on the floor. He frowns at the expression on John’s face. John snorts anyway. “I can solve the case remotely. There is no mystery as to who the killer is.”

“The killer _s_ , and of course there’s not,” Mycroft says smoothly. “I merely thought you might enjoy tracking a fugitive through to capture.”

Something complicated happens to Sherlock’s mouth that John can’t quite identify. Silence spools out from the phone all around them.

“You’ll be sending a car,” Sherlock says. It’s not a question.

“I believe it should already be at Baker Street.” As if on cue, a horn honks twice from the street below. “Your luggage is in the boot. A briefcase with the pertinent case information is in the possession of the driver. A representative from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation will meet you at the Atlanta airport.”

“Of course he will. Atlanta _is_ an airport.” Sherlock stands.

“Come now, Sherlock,” Mycroft says. “Atlanta is a metropolitan city, the equal of Paris or New York.”

Both Holmes men do something so rare it startles John: they start laughing together. John rolls his eyes and pockets his own cell phone in his jeans.

“Shall we?” John asks, opening the door.

Sherlock’s eyes darken a shade. He picks his phone up from the table, hangs up on Mycroft, and walks out the door.

 

***

John reads the summary of the case on the plane. Eight dead so far, including a family of six. Likely a carjacking both times. Some items stolen in addition to the cars: luggage, clothing, computers. Only one car, the first, has already been located, so it’s likely the suspects are looking for another car and, therefore, for more victims.

The Misfit and company, two men also escaped from the federal penitentiary.  
John sighs and leans his head back. He feigns sleep for the rest of the flight. It’s not fooling Sherlock one wit, but he doesn’t care.

***

By the time a fairly tall, large-gutted man steps forward as if to greet them near baggage claim, John is beginning to think Sherlock was right: Atlanta consists entirely of an airport. Even with the special service a private plane and Mycroft’s security clearance affords them it’s been a maze of moving walkways, terminals, trains and escalators. John’s shoulder is twinging just a bit, sore and misused from hauling two full bags of rolling luggage through the airport. Sherlock is carrying only his laptop bag, slung over one shoulder. John’s stubbornness has won out against his better judgment, twice: once when he didn’t insist Sherlock take care of his own luggage in the first place, and again when he refuses to ask for help in spite of the pain in his shoulder. He’s as pissed with himself as he is with Sherlock.

The man steps toward them, hand already outstretched. “Buddy Goodwin,” he says. John drops Sherlock’s bag abruptly in order to take the offered hand. The handle makes a slight pinging sound as it hits the floor.

“John Watson. Sherlock’s _colleague_.”

“Pleasure,” Buddy says. He offers his hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s face has disdain written all over it, the subtle whiff of _Of course your name is Buddy_ set into the slight wrinkle in the bridge of his nose. He takes the hand anyway. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Buddy shakes Sherlock’s hand firmly, either ignorant or ignoring of Sherlock’s attitude. “I can see the resemblance to Mycroft,” he says.

The lines around Sherlock’s eyes deepen fractionally. John tries and mostly succeeds in hiding a smile.

“You know Mycroft?” John asks politely.

Buddy has turned and started to walk toward the exit, John and Sherlock following. Sherlock is rolling his own bag behind him now.

“Yes, sir,” Buddy addresses John. “Knew him in the Peace Corps.”

John nearly stops walking he’s so surprised. “Mycroft was in the Peace Corps?”

Sherlock snorts.

“Lord, no,” Buddy answers, grinning. “ _I_ was in the Peace Corps. I was digging wells and administering vaccines in Kenya. God only knows what Mycroft was doing. Well, likely undermining the government, that’s what. I learned not to ask too many questions.”

“Perfect skill building for a future detective,” Sherlock says dryly.

Buddy says nothing in reply, dodging a family of four rather nimbly for a man his size. He runs a hand over his balding head, his fingers scraping a bit of blond hair at the edge. “If you boys are up for it, we’ll visit the family’s home first.”

Sherlock immediately says, “I want to see the second crime scene first.”

“Son, it’s four o’clock on a Friday. I am not driving three or more hours including Atlanta traffic, which is likely to make it at least closer to five hours, at this time of day. We can see the family’s crime scene tomorrow.”

“Unacceptable,” Sherlock says. He stops walking, forcing Buddy to stop, too, and turn back. He abruptly turns to John. “Spare me whatever pitiful reasoning you are about to bestow upon me, John.”

John bites the inside of his cheek, but says nothing. Sherlock glares at him.

Buddy looks between the two of them but doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Mr. Holmes,” he says, forcing Sherlock to look at him.

“The crime scene is vastly more interesting to me in this small endeavor than the home could ever be.”

“I know the area. The home is in town. A search of the home will be more convenient at this time of day, including giving us the ability to leave you at your hotel at a decent hour.”

“I can see that finding The Misfit is a mere matter of convenience to you.”

Buddy reddens, but he levels a look at Sherlock. “Hardly. But between what you have already learned from the case file and what you will learn from our command post and the family house, there is very little information to be garnered that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, when more bodies turn up.” John looks sharply at Sherlock, but doesn’t comment.

“Tomorrow, when a trip to middle Georgia is more expedient. Son, even with daylight savings time, we aren’t likely to get to the site much before dark, if it isn’t dark already. There’s nothing new you can turn up in the dark.”

“I can always turn up something new.”

Buddy actually smiles. “Then come turn up something new at the house.”

“There’s nothing to be gained from the house.” Sherlock’s voice has now risen to the point that a few people are turning to look. “The family was not targeted on purpose! They were merely random victims in the wrong place at the wrong time! Their lives give us no clue to where the criminals might be.”

“Hmmm.” Buddy hums. “I like to think that every victim’s life is related to their death,” he says.

“That is pure pedantic sentiment,” Sherlock says. “No matter how much you agree with it.” The latter he directs toward John.

John frowns but stays silent.

“The bottom line is that I’m not taking two foreign, jet-lagged civilians to a crime scene hours away at this point in the day. You are welcome to see the family house, and our office and any information we have in it. We’ll make the trip tomorrow morning. The manhunt will continue without us during the night; it’s not like we shut down once the sun goes down.” Buddy pauses. “No matter what you might think.”

Sherlock’s cheekbones and neck are slightly flushed in frustration. “I’ll want to see the bodies.” The words are clipped.

“Fine. We can include a trip to the morgue.”

“First.”

“If you want. I’ll call ahead and see that the bodies are ready for viewing.”

Sherlock inclines his head.

Buddy turns and starts walking again. “We can go to the house afterwards.”

John can see Sherlock’s jaw jump from where he is grinding his teeth. But when the words come out, they are as smooth as ever. “I’m not interested in the family,” he says.

It’s not a statement. It’s a gauntlet.

 

***

John has never seen Sherlock look so put out to be in a morgue. After sitting in traffic for over an hour to go six miles, John understands Buddy’s reluctance to drive out of town, particularly in the mind-melting August heat; there was only so much the poor car’s air-conditoner could do. The coolness of the morgue is a relief; just the walk from the car to the building had made sweat break out across John’s neck and back. Sherlock is frowning in front of the autopsy tables, as if he doesn’t know where to start. There are five bodies in front of them, two of them children. John wouldn’t know where to start, either, though he is beginning to suspect his reasons may be different from Sherlock’s.

“Where’s the infant?” Sherlock asks, his voice loud in the sterile room.

“Excuse me?” Buddy asks.

“The infant. Where is the body of the infant? I will want to examine it, too,” Sherlock says impatiently.

“Sherlock,” John starts.

“Don’t,” Sherlock says.

“That’s not necessary,” Buddy says.

Sherlock turns to look at him. “I beg to differ.”

“It’s not necessary,” Buddy says again. John is beginning to see why he’s friends with Mycroft; anyone willing to assert that kind of will against a Holmes either earns their friendship or their disdain. Lately John’s been earning more of the latter from Sherlock.

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but Buddy speaks first. “Gunshot to the head. There’s not much left, frankly, and what there is doesn’t need to be seen.”

John winces at the description; it takes a special amount of malevolence to be able to shoot a baby in the head. He’s not sure he needs to see it.

Sherlock frowns, looking intently at Buddy. After a few more moments, he walks over to the first slab, raises the sheet. “John,” he says sharply.

John walks over, looks down at the body. He states the facts. “White male, late 30s, early 40s. Gunshot wound to the chest. Precise; not perfect, but not messy, either. Close range.”

“Execution,” Sherlock agrees. He points to the man’s neck.

John leans in closer. “Wounds on the neck . . . look like scratch marks. Puncture marks, too. Pretty deep.” He pauses. “Look like --”

“Cat scratches,” Sherlock says. “Close to death, too.”

“Hmm.” John hums agreement. “Still bleeding when he died.”

Sherlock shoots him a small approving look. John pretends not to notice.

“How the bloody hell would a man get cat scratches on his neck in that situation?” John asks.

“Grandmother smuggled the cat along on the trip,” Sherlock answers, then sighs.

“Grandmother? Not the children?”

“Grandmother,” Sherlock says firmly. Looks at Buddy.

“Relatives say the grandmother had a cat. Daughter even asked who was looking after it when we notified her,” Buddy says.

Sherlock has his magnifier out. “Other minor cuts and bruises. Mostly on the torso, though some on the backs of his legs.” He looks at John.

“Not a carjacking,” John says.

“No,” Sherlock agrees. “The woman had a broken shoulder as well.” John walks over to the woman’s body to look at the shoulder.

“Car accident,” Sherlock says to Buddy.

“Accident?” he says.

“Angle of the bone and discoloration indicate blunt force trauma,” John says, pulling the sheet back up.

“Thrown from the car,” Sherlock agrees. Sherlock snaps on gloves and walks over next to where John is standing. He pulls the sheet down and probes gently at the dead woman’s shoulder.

“Your family was in an automobile accident prior to their deaths,” Sherlock informs Buddy. “The first two male victims were carjacked, chosen for their clothing and vehicle. This family, however.”

“Cat startled the driver, caused an accident?” John says. He hates that it sounded like a question.

Sherlock nods, his curls bouncing a little. “Likely conclusion. Cat somehow smuggled in the car, got loose. Startled the man, causing him to run off the road. Woman was thrown from the car. Why people don’t use seat belts is beyond me.” He pauses. “Only minor injuries, however. Children were fine. The car probably wasn’t as fine.”

Sherlock moves over to the third adult body, lifts the sheet.

“So they were sitting ducks,” Buddy says.

“Why not call for help?” John asks. “They did have cell phones?”

Buddy nods his head. “Likely there’s not phone service out where they were found. Atlanta is one thing; rural Georgia, quite another.”

“John,” Sherlock says.

John walks over, looks down at the body of an old woman -- eighty if she’s a day. He frowns. “Three gunshot wounds, all over the heart.” He looks up at Sherlock. “This one was personal.”

Sherlock nods, stripping off his gloves. “He did this one himself.”

“The Misfit?”

Sherlock nods again. “Others are all one gunshot, chest or head. Executed. Minimal mess, definitely wanted them dead, but not a lot of fuss. Likely the work of his com-patriots. No imagination. The grandmother . . . “ he trails off, shrugs.

“What could she have done?” John asks.

“I don’t know yet,” Sherlock admits. “But something. Something the Misfit didn’t like.”

John sighs.

Sherlock turns to Buddy. “I’m ready to see the house now.”

As they leave, John notes that Sherlock doesn’t examine the children at all.

 

***

After another 45 minutes to the house, John is convinced that aside from the massive highway there are no straight roads in Atlanta. He says as much to Buddy as they exit the car.

Buddy laughs. “Believe it or not, that was purposeful. If the Yankees were ever inclined to come on down here and burn it again, we were at least going to make it hard for them to find their away around.”

They have stepped out onto a tree-lined street, all full, lush trees and crisp green grass lawns. The houses are more or less all the same; two level, single family dwellings, though the outside styles vary a bit. Pink azaleas are in full bloom along the front of the house.

“Some kind of suburb,” Sherlock notes as they approach the house. His eyes are darting, no doubt taking in every detail.

Buddy laughs again. “Questionable. We’re inside the perimeter. This is still more or less considered the heart of Atlanta.”

“The perimeter?” Sherlock asks, disdain evident in his voice.

“I-285,” Buddy answers. “The highway makes a literal loop around the city. Outside of it, north or south, you are definitely considered a suburb. Though still part of Atlanta. Inside of it . . . well. Depends on how technical you want to get. Atlanta city limits may have officially ended in some of it, and we tend to classify by neighborhood, but inside the perimeter is considered much more urban.”

John looks around at the gardens, flowers, trees. “You have an interesting definition of urban.”

Buddy smiles and unlocks the door to the house. “I live in Virginia Highlands. ITP. Of course I do.”

The air conditioner has been turned off, and it is stifling inside the house. John has to take a moment to adjust, trying to breathe air that feels as wet as it does heavy. Sherlock glides past him, already pulling on latex gloves. The curls at the nape of his neck are damp and sticking just slightly to his skin. John looks away.

The home is tidy, but not overly so. John can see the small bit of dust on the surfaces in the formal living room and dining room. They move to the back of the house, to the family room, where things are even less tidy. Children’s toys are strewn here and there on the floor, particularly in front of the huge telly. A desk with stacks of mail is propped up on one wall, a fairly new desktop computer also taking up space there. The kitchen is decorated in blue and green, and there’s a juice glass in the sink.

Sherlock walks straight over to the desk, booting up the computer before picking up a stack of mail. “Average,” he declares after a few moments.

“Pardon?” John asks.

“Average. Utterly, utterly average.” Sherlock puts the mail down and turns his attention to the computer. A screen prompts him for the password, which he apparently enters as the home menu pops up shortly. He snorts. “Even their password was _password_.”

As Sherlock engages himself with the computer, Buddy shrugs. “He’s not wrong. Not that there’s anything wrong with average,” Buddy says. Sherlock snorts again.

“Bailey Scott and family. Wife Tina, three children, mother Verna. Well-liked enough in the neighborhood, and at work. He was a number cruncher at a small firm in Norcross; Tina worked as a middle school assistant principal. Nothing exceptional, either good or bad,” Buddy says.

“In debt up to their eyeballs,” Sherlock adds. “Though that’s not at all extraordinary anymore, either. Owed more on the house than it is worth, loads of credit card debt. They were primarily financing their annual trip to Florida on their Visa card.” Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together as he tweaks the browsing history and it opens to a local news outlet’s website. He turns in his chair to address Buddy.

“The Misfit’s getting a lot of press,” he says.

“Even more so now, yes,” Buddy says.

Sherlock clicks the web browser shut. John doesn’t even get a look.

“What?” John asks.

“Nothing,” Sherlock dismisses. “Someone, likely the father or grandmother, had been reading a news story all about him.” He shakes his head. “Coincidence.”

“The family wasn’t a target,” John says.

“Very good, John,” Sherlock says, voice thick with sarcasm, gone higher from the added scorn.

John frowns sharply, but Sherlock stands up. “I’m done here.”

“So soon?” Buddy looks surprised. “Don’t you want to see the other rooms?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Won’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Or need to know.”

Buddy looks at John. John sighs. “I’m sure he’s right.”

Sherlock’s shoes click on the hardwood floor as he walks to the front door.

***

 

Buddy pulls up to the curb outside of the downtown Ritz-Careleton hotel. John once again silently thanks Mycroft for his good taste and deep pockets.

“I’ll meet you here at nine and we’ll head down to the crime scene,” Buddy says as they move to get out of the car.

“No need; we’ll take a cab to the station,” Sherlock says.

Buddy shakes his head. Sherlock pauses before getting out of the car. “You could, but as there are no street cabs here, you’d have to call for one, and even then there’s only a 50% chance they’d actually show up. Plus you might have to sell something just to pay for it.”

Sherlock is actually gaping open-mouthed at Buddy. John can’t help but laugh; he pushes Sherlock in the shoulder to get him to keep moving while Buddy pops the boot so they can collect their luggage.

“Nine it is, then,” John says, still urging Sherlock out of the car.

 

***

 

John finds Sherlock in the hotel restaurant at 7:30 the next morning. Sherlock’s drinking a cup of coffee, the paper open in front of him. There’s no food in sight. Sherlock’s only concession to the heat is that the sleeves of his ridiculously expensive shirt are rolled up to the elbow. He’s still wearing posh, black trousers and his shoes are almost horrifically shiny. There is a pair of jet black sunglasses next to the coffee cup’s saucer. John is wearing a white polo shirt and pair of khaki colored cargo pants that Mycroft had provided in his luggage. He’d chosen the trainers rather than the sensible loafers also provided in his bag.

Sherlock doesn’t look up when John sits down.

The waitress comes over and John orders eggs, toast and coffee. John is shaking out the cloth napkin to place in his lap when Sherlock speaks.

“What kind of civilization doesn’t have cabs available?” Sherlock doesn’t look up from the paper.

John is still laughing when his food comes, and he slides two pieces of toast over onto Sherlock’s empty plate.

***

If Sherlock thought Atlanta was uncivilized, then they have certainly now reached the end of the world, John thinks.

According to Buddy they are about an hour south of Milledgeville, but it might as well be the edge of the horizon. They are surrounded by thick woods, so dense and full of leaves they look dark even in the sparkling sunlight. They drove down the dirt road John is standing on for about twenty minutes just to get here. Sherlock was right, of course, about the accident; the tire tracks are clear in the red Georgia clay where the car went off the road. Buddy has taken Sherlock back in the woods where the bodies were found. John is standing underneath a pine tree. The Scott’s cat is at the foot of it; a grey tabby with white feet. Probably thrown there by the accident. Or possibly after, John thinks, poking at it slightly with the toe of his trainer. He stops and looks away.

Sherlock and Buddy become visible toward the edge of the woods opposite John. Sherlock is shaking his head, but John can not hear the conversation. They continue to walk to a spot to John’s right, and John joins them. All three stand near the trunk of another pine.

“Blood,” Sherlock says, pointing to the grass. A good amount of blood has pooled and dried at the base of the tree.

“This is where he shot the grandmother,” Buddy confirms. Sherlock nods.

“The three of them escape prison. Meet the first two victims, both men. Shoot them, take their car and some of their clothes. Come along the back road here. Want to avoid major highways, avoid attention, especially with a stolen car. Find this family, broken down car, no chance of local help.” Sherlock takes his phone out of his pocket and holds it aloft; the reflection glints off of his sunglasses. “No cell service. Can’t call for help either. The other two take the family into the woods to kill them. The men first, Bailey and the son. Then the mother, daughter and infant.”

“Why kill them?” John asks. “They could have just gone on their way.”

“Someone recognized them,” Sherlock answers, not even looking at John. “Someone had been reading about him before they left. The grandmother, judging from the time the Misfit must have spent with her. Not why he shot her, though.”

“Does it really matter why he shot her?” John asks. He knows it does, but it’s hot, and he’s tired from jet-lag, and frankly, he wants Sherlock to look at him, which Sherlock does, head snapping in John’s direction.

“The fugitives were heading to Florida,” Sherlock says, not answering John’s question, but still looking at him, though his eyes are concealed by the glasses.

“Yes,” Buddy says, his hands in his pockets.

“They’re not there. Yet.” Sherlock flicks his head toward Buddy. “Don’t worry, you’ll still have jurisdiction.”

“Florida has the death penalty, too,” Buddy says. “And there’s also extradition.”

John looks at him. Buddy just looks back. “You don’t kill a whole family in Georgia, including an 82 year old woman and three children, without being put to death,” Buddy says. “And there’s the two men they started with to think about, too.”

John looks down, not conceding the point but not arguing, either.

Sherlock’s fingers are tented over his lips. “No. Not in Florida. Not even close. He’s still around here. He hasn’t gone far. Something about this encounter spooked him. He’s lingering.”

“Any suggestion how we find where?” Buddy asks.

Sherlock looks at him. “You haven’t found the car yet?”

Buddy shakes his head. “They didn’t take the phones, either.”

“Too easily traced,” Sherlock agrees. Abruptly he grimaces, scuffs his shoe violently against the ground, stirring up pink dust. “I can’t think in this _heat_ ,” he snaps.

“Come on,” Buddy sighs. “Saw a barbecue place not far back, might as well cool off and have lunch.”

John nods, following Buddy to the car.

Sherlock looks down at the ground as he trails them.

 

***

The barbecue place turns out to be a random shack near the highway called The Tower. There had been signs up and down the highway for at least ten miles advertising it and the proprietor Red Sammy, a war veteran. There’s a chinaberry tree in the yard with, of all things, a monkey attached to it. The monkey is sitting on a branch, biting into fleas as if they are a delicacy.

John expects Sherlock to balk immediately. Instead, Sherlock opens the car door and springs out nearly as soon as they stop. He peeks his head back through the not-quite-closed door.

“Come on, John. Don’t want to miss this.” He clicks his teeth and winks.

John considers throttling him then and there, except that there’s an officer present. Fortunately for Sherlock, Buddy ignores the show, heading for the screen door entrance.

“Chop, chop, John,” Sherlock calls behind him as he follows Buddy inside.

 

***

 

Their server turns out to be Red Sammy’s wife. Inside, The Tower is one long room with a counter at one end and a mix-match of tables from the middle of the room to the door. They sit at a table for four; Buddy’s back is to the door, John near the wall, with Sherlock facing the door. Red Sammy’s wife asks for their drink order first.

“Do you have any tea?” John asks.

The woman smiles. “Sure, honey.”

Sherlock looks at John and flicks an eyebrow up and down quickly. “Water, please.”

Buddy orders a coke.

They peruse their menus while waiting for their drinks. “Are there any vegetables on this menu?” John asks.

“Fried green tomatoes,” Buddy says. “And collard greens.”

John makes a non-committal noise as Red Sammy’s wife comes back with a tray of drinks. She sets a red plastic cup with _Coca-Cola_ in white letters on the side in front of John; it’s full of ice and a dark brown liquid. Sherlock actually smirks, the bastard.

“What’ll y’all have?” Red Sammy’s wife asks.

“Pulled-pork sandwich and potato salad,” Buddy starts.

“Same,” John says, closing his menu.

“I don’t eat when I’m on a case,” Sherlock says, frowning down at his still open menu.

“He’ll have the same,” John says. Sherlock glares at him but doesn’t say anything.

John eyes his tea warily, stirring the icy mixture with a straw before taking a sip. He coughs and covers his mouth in surprise. Buddy is clearly hiding a smile in the turn of his head. Sherlock has his phone out and is glaring at it mercilessly, though John sees the right corner of his mouth twitch.

Buddy takes John’s cup. He lifts the straw to his mouth and drinks, finishing the iced tea in three long gulps. He puts the cup down with a satisfied sigh.

“That’s the good stuff,” Buddy says. “You can tell they put the sugar in when the water is boiling; the only way to do it, really.”

John grabs Sherlock’s water in retaliation, though he doesn’t even take a sip.

The screen door swings open, and a man who can only be Red Sammy walks in. He has a gigantic belly, the bulldog on his University of Georgia t-shirt stretched almost to grotesqueness. He’s cleaning automobile grease off his fingers onto a rag, talking to a man in thin, wire-rimmed glasses and yellow sport shirt with blue parrots on it.

“You can’t win,” Sammy is saying. “These days you don’t know who to trust. A’int that the truth.”

The man in the parrot shirt nods, taking a seat at a table across from and slightly closer to the door than where Sherlock, John and Buddy are sitting.

John feels rather than sees Sherlock tense. He looks at Sherlock, but Sherlock is still staring at his phone.

Red Sammy’s wife hands the man a menu, then walks back behind the counter.

“Everything is getting terrible,” Red Sammy says, still addressing the man in the glasses, though he’s headed toward the counter, too. “I remember the day you could leave your screen door unlatched. Not no more, though.”

For a moment, the only sound is the rattle of dishes as Red Sammy’s wife prepares their plates.

“She called me one of her own children,” the man in the parrot shirt says suddenly into the quiet. “Touched me on the shoulder. Can you believe that?”

John looks up, his gaze sharpened to a knife point. He can feel Buddy shift beside him, toward his firearm.

Sherlock finally looks up, straight at the man. He was clearly addressing Sherlock.

“That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?” The man blinks, still speaking to Sherlock. “Heard you down the way. Lingering.”

Sherlock answers with a simple, “Yes.”

“Don’t know why it bothered me so much, tell you the truth. Gonna kill her anyway, but that. That, and the fact that she wouldn’t _shut up_.” There’s a pistol in his hand now. John isn’t sure how it got there, how he didn’t notice it before.

“Officer, I wouldn’t touch that gun if I were you, other than to put it on the table, nice and easy,” the Misfit says. “You’ve got four civilians in here. Don’t want this to make national news, do you.” It’s not a question.

Buddy takes his gun from the holster, slides it on the table until it comes to rest in the middle, with the ketchup, salt and pepper.

“Talker, was she?” Sherlock asks.

The Misfit laughs. It’s a mean sound. “Good God Almighty, you have no idea.” He pauses. “You’re a talker, too, aren’t you.”

John sucks in a breath.

“No,” Sherlock says.

The Misfit laughs. “Come now, we both know that’s not true. So does he.” He gestures at John.

“How do you know that?” John asks.

“John,” Sherlock’s warning is sharp, a growl.

“I have a way with people,” the Misfit says.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Sherlock drawls.

“Oh, no, it’s true. Got it from my Daddy. He had a way of dealing with folks. Real good man, he was.”

“Is that why you stabbed him 14 times?” Sherlock asks. Buddy shoots him a look.

“No. I never did that. Doctor at the jail done told me I did, but I don’t remember it. Daddy died of the flu in 1919. Buried in the Mount Hopewell Baptist Church graveyard. You can check it yourself.”

“I did,” Sherlock says.

“Good.” The Misfit actually seems pleased. “They got the papers on me, showed ‘em to me. Don’t know how they did it.”

“That’s what the court process usually produces,” Sherlock says dryly.

The Misfit fiddles with the safety on his gun. “You know what jail is like?” he asks Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. John doesn’t want to know how.

“Like being buried alive. Turn to the right, it was a wall. Turn to the left, it was a wall. Look up, it was a ceiling. Look down, it was a floor.” It’s silent except for the Misfit’s voice and the sound of the safety being clicked off and on.

“Boring,” Sherlock says.

“Didn’t think my mind would ever recover,” the Misfit agrees. “That’s why they call me the Misfit. ‘Cause my punishment never fit my crime. Never could make them match up.”

For once, Sherlock doesn’t feel the need to point out the irony. John can hear Red Sammy’s wife crying.

“Ma’am, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop that,” the Misfit says. “Don’t like the sound of it. Reminds me too much of my mama.”

“Did she cry? The grandmother you just killed?” Sherlock asks.

The Misfit smiles. “No, sir. Did try to talk to me about Jesus. Said Jesus could still help me, make me a good man.” The Misfit shakes his head. “A good man is hard to find.”

“I found one,” Sherlock says.

John doesn’t look at him.

“Yes, sir, I reckon you did,” the Misfit says. “Me, I do just fine on my own. Don’t need help from Jesus nor nobody.” The Misfit cocks the safety off. “Besides. Even good men run off. Specially when you want ‘em to. Even more often when you don’t.”

Sherlock remains silent.

“My Daddy didn’t run off, though. No, sir.” The Misfit sighs.

“No,” Sherlock says. “Got stabbed to death instead.”

The Misfit laughs. “You know, you’re like her. With the talking.”

“Not with the Jesus, though,” Sherlock says smoothly.

“No,” the Misfit agrees. “You understand.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “I do?”

“Hmm. Only pleasure in life is meanness, ain’t it?”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth tighten.

“Jesus done changed the order of things. If He was true, that is. Shouldn’t of raised the dead. Shouldn’t of risen himself. Wish I knew if He was real.” The Misfit looks down at the table for a moment, then looks back up at Sherlock. “Figure He ain’t, though. And if he ain’t, then we got nothing to do on this Earth than take what pleasure we can in the few moments we’re here.”

“In meanness,” Sherlock says.

“In meanness,” the Misfit agrees.

“John,” Sherlock says.

John moves faster than Sherlock has ever seen him, brings the Glock up from under the table and fires three shots. Red Sammy’s wife screams. The Misfit slumps forward in his chair.

Buddy looks at John.

“Mycroft included it in my luggage,” John says calmly.

“Always did like Mycroft,” Buddy says.

 

***

John knocks on the door of Sherlock’s hotel room. He doesn’t wait for an acknowledgement to enter. Sherlock looks up from where he’s folding a pair of pants carefully back into his luggage.

John puts his hands in his pockets. “Wanted to see if you, er, were . . .”

“I’m not the one who shot a man today,” Sherlock says smoothly. “I should be asking you.”

“He wasn’t a very nice man,” John says.

“No,” Sherlock agrees. He doesn’t smile.

“They found the bodies of his two accomplices. About two miles from Red Sammy’s,” John says.

Sherlock nods. “He was going to get rid of them sooner or later.” He shrugs. “I guess it was sooner.”

John nods.

They stand in silence for a few moments while Sherlock continues to pack. Finally Sherlock throws a pair of shoes in with more force than necessary. “Was there anything else, John?” he asks. His tone is snide.

John licks his lips. “Yeah, actually. I think there is.”

Sherlock turns to him. Waits.

John moves forward suddenly, up into Sherlock’s personal space. He lands a left hook solidly on Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock stumbles back, reaching up and rubbing his jaw. “Bloody hell!”

John rubs a thumb over the knuckles of his fist and breathes out sharply through his nose.

“John!” Sherlock is rubbing a hand across his jaw. The skin is already purpling; there will be a bruise on it tomorrow.

“You bloody awful bastard,” John says. “That’s for being as heinous to me as possible on this trip, and for the past four months, actually.”

Sherlock is still rubbing his jaw. “I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“Of course you do!” John nearly shouts.

Sherlock stares at John coolly. “Really, John. I have no idea what your small mind has come up with, but it is no concern of mine.”

“I’m going to punch you again,” John starts.

“As if I’d let you inside my guard again.”

“And this time would be for believing him.”

“Who?”

“ _Moriarty_ , you bloody idiot.”

Sherlock blinks. John has never seen him look so gobsmacked. It shouldn’t give John a shiver down his spine, but it does.

“You are _not_ Moriarty, Sherlock. You’re not the Misfit, either. You are not like them. You are not made for each other.”

Sherlock smiles widely, and it’s terrible. “You know my meanness, John.”

“You don’t take pleasure in it.”

The smile stays. “Don’t I?”

John licks his bottom lip.

“I thought we’ve had this conversation before, John. Even you should be able to remember it. Heroes don’t exist.”

John’s jaw sets. “Stop trying to manipulate me.” His voice is low and dangerous.

“I manipulate everyone,” Sherlock says.

“Do you?” John asks.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Fuck you,” John says.

“You should go,” Sherlock says. He nods toward the door.

“Now, or when we get back to London?”

“Preferably both,” Sherlock answers smoothly.

John steps forward instead. Sherlock tries to step back in response, but he’s not quite quick enough to avoid John being in his space. John reaches toward his jaw again, and he can sense Sherlock brace for impact.

John draws Sherlock forward by the jaw and kisses him.

It’s not a grand kiss by any measure. Close mouthed against Sherlock’s lips; Sherlock’s utterly still, as if he’s frightened or, more likely, trying not to show any interest. John moves his head back just far enough to look at Sherlock’s face. It’s immobile, and as sharp as glass.

“Stop. Believing. Moriarty.” John’s voice is low and firm.

“That’s not the part of Moriarty I believe.” Sherlock says it like he’s had to drag it out of the depths of his gut.

“I know,” John says, leans his forehead against Sherlock’s, gives Sherlock the privacy of being able to lower his eyes.

“He’ll _burn_ you.” Sherlock’s voice actually shakes.

“No, he won’t.”

“I don’t know if I can stop him.” Sherlock barely gets the words out. John lets go of his jaw.

“I know. But I can.”

Sherlock breaks the connection at their foreheads. John has never seen him look that vulnerable, not even at the pool. His eyes are dark, and he’s as pale as John’s ever seen him.

“You can’t promise that,” Sherlock says.

“Can’t I?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admits, whispering, eyes searching John’s face. “There are too many variables.”

“Better if I wasn’t in the equation then,” John says.

“Yes.” Sherlock whispers.

John sighs. “People aren’t variables,” he says.

“You aren’t,” Sherlock says. “That’s true.”

“What am I?” John asks.

“A constant,” he says.

“And don’t you forget it,” John says, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> * I know nothing about guns. I gave John a Glock 19 here, which would have been introduced in July 2010, because a) Mycroft would have the latest and b) it should have been small enough to conceal in the pocket of his cargo pants.
> 
> * If you know Atlanta at all, I situated the Scott family’s house in the Druid Hills/Decatur area.
> 
> * I know the original story lists where the family met The Misfit as around Toomsboro, GA. This is undoubtedly part of O’Connor’s trademark dark humor. I mentioned Milledgeville as a tribute to O’Connor herself, who lived there. Besides, Toomsboro, GA is a real place, and not far from where I located the crime scene in the story.
> 
> * Yes, Alabama and Georgia were actually in a legal fight about who is allowed to draw water from Tennessee. This is what Mycroft is referring to in the beginning of the fic.


End file.
